


a drop in the ocean

by slvtherxn



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, I don’t even like shameless, I hate what Shameless did with this fucking storyline, M/M, Therapy, for ian alone and for ian and mickey, ian gets the help he needs, im just mad at thm, rebuilding relationships, so I fixed it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slvtherxn/pseuds/slvtherxn
Summary: "How’s your support system?” The counselor asks him, her eyes happy and sad and full of pity all at once. It makes Ian’s stomach turn. She hands him a paper cup of pills and a bottle of water.“Not good,” he finally decides, and downs all the pills at once, chasing them with water.





	1. one more week

**Author's Note:**

> alllright a few notes:  
> \-- new multichapter!  
> \-- i'm not quite sure how psychiatric hospitals work in america because i'm not from there  
> \-- this is not a psych ward fic. this is an ian gets the help he needs and tries to rebuild his relationships fic.  
> \-- most of the first chapter is snapshots. i'm not sure yet if it will continue in this fashion but it most likely will.  
> \-- this is very ian centric  
> \-- it will focus on ian/mickey along with ian's relationship with his family as he tries to rebuild both of those  
> \-- nothing after ian was admitted to the hospital happens. this is canon up until he goes into the hospital and then completely au from there.

"How’s your support system?” The counselor asks him, her eyes happy and sad and full of pity all at once. It makes Ian’s stomach turn. She hands him a paper cup of pills and a bottle of water. 

Ian thinks over her question. He has a supposedly hardass boyfriend, who’s been acting more like a nurse than a best friend; an older sister who babies him and thinks he’s just like their psycho mom; an older brother who agrees and walks on eggshells around him; and younger siblings who are scared of him.

“Not good,” he finally decides, and downs all the pills at once, chasing them with water.

The counselor nods her head, and scratches down something in his file. He thinks briefly that she should know this already, as he’s been here for almost eight months. She knows all about his support system.

“Well, that’s something we’ll have to work on in your last week here, Ian.” She gives him a smile as if it’s exciting news.

He nods curtly, eyes on the empty paper cup in his hand. 

One more week, and he’s back in the real word. Part of him, the part that hasn’t been squashed by medications and white walls and concerned siblings is a little excited. Nervous, though. Apprehensive, is probably the best term for it. He doesn’t trust himself anymore, he doesn’t know who he is.

Glancing up, he realizes he’s being spoken to. “Sorry?” He asks, and her smile turns to one of pity.

“I was asking if you remember what your conditions for release are.” 

“Oh,” Ian replies, thinking bitterly that it sounds far too much like he’s a prisoner. He supposes he is, in a way. His arrival here was far from voluntary, and they refused to let him leave until he was better. It sounds stupid, he thinks. He’s never going to be better, not fully.

“Medication compliance,” he eventually answers, “Regular therapy, and, uh. Admitting that I’m sick.”

The counselor nods her head, as if she’s urging him to continue, which he doesn’t get. He’s answered her question. “And do you?” 

“Do I what?” Ian asks. 

“Do you think you’re sick?” 

Ian pauses. Every nerve in his body wants to scream _no_ \-- he’s fine. But he takes a look around the office where he’s sitting, and it starts to settle in his bones. He’s in a hospital, and he has been for quite a while. A hospital for sick people, and that makes him one of them. 

“Yeah,” he answers, his wandering eyes landing back on his counselor, “Yeah, I’m fucked.” 

The counselor makes a soft tsk noise, shaking her head at him as if she’s disappointed. It doesn’t impact him in the slightest, so he’s not really sure why she tries. “Being ill doesn’t mean you’re fucked, Ian.” 

“Yeah, okay,” he replies, a tinge of sarcasm coloring his words. The white walls are starting to make him nauseous. Or maybe it’s a side effect of the shitload of pills he just took. Either way, he wants it to stop.

“I want you to think of at least one person you can rely on,” she continues, “You can’t do this alone, even if you want to. Everybody needs someone to lean on.” 

He nods again. 

With one last smile, she nods back at him, evidently satisfied with his lack of retort. He’s learned to hold his tongue. “See you next week.” 

He manages a tight lipped smile back, and slips out the office door. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Hey sweetface!” Fiona exclaims when she seems him, both her and Mickey standing up to greet him. “One more week!”    
  
Her tone is so overly happy and positive that it makes Ian want to be sick. He shoots a look at Mickey, hoping he understands. By the soft quirk of Mickey’s lips, he does. That, or he’s just happy to see Ian. With all the shit that’s been going on, Ian thinks it’s probably the former. 

“Hey, Fi,” he replies back, complying and letting her wrap him up in a tight hug. “Yeah, I know.” 

As he does every week, he moves to hug Mickey next. Mickey embraces him softer, but clings to his shirt, like he doesn’t want Ian to disappear from his arms. It makes Ian slightly sad. 

"Hey, man,” Mickey mutters in his ear, and Ian doesn’t respond. Instead, he presses his face to the top of Mickey’s head and inhales, letting his scent wash over him for just a minute. 

They separate, and Ian sits down across from the two of them, dreading the question that always comes next. 

“How you feeling?”    
  
It’s Mickey who asks, which is a slight surprise, but Fiona looks thankful that for once, it isn’t her. 

“Fine,” Ian answers, unintentionally short, “Better.” 

He doesn’t want to talk about himself. That’s all Mickey and Fiona ever want to do, and it pisses him off to no end. He’s missed so much at home, and it’s not like they’ve missed anything with him. Every day is the same here, he follows a routine that’s practically minute by minute.

Mickey, who’s always been good at reading Ian, raises both eyebrows at him. It’s a gesture that means both  _ spit it out  _ and  _ seriously _ at the same time.

“How’s Yevgeny?” Ian asks instead, like he does every week. Fiona shifts, as if she was expecting it, and her eyes are on Mickey. Unsurprisingly, he fidgets under her gaze.

“He’s, uh. He’s good, man. Talking a fuckload. Think he gets that from you, being such a blabbermouth and everything.” 

Almost against his will, Ian’s lips curl up into a small smile. He glances to Fiona and sees she’s smiling too, and he wonders when her and Mickey got to be such good friends. 

“What does he talk about?” He asks, wanting to hear more about the kid. Despite what his actions prove, he loves that baby. He would never hurt that baby.

Mickey leans forward, as if he’s aching to take Ian’s hand. The hospital always makes him so uncomfortable, it’s painfully obvious. Fiona shoots him one of her soothing, motherly glances, and it’s enough to make him stop fidgeting.

“He knows colors and shit. You know, baby stuff. I said fuck the other day and he repeated it, so now I’m not allowed to fuckin’ curse. I mean, the kid’s a Milkovich, he’s gonna say it eventually.” 

Fiona gives a soft laugh, and Ian’s smiling for a moment, before it slides off his face. Fiona’s laugh quiets, and she shoots him her best comforting smile. “What’s wrong, baby?”    
  
Ian huffs out a breath, because he hates when she acts like he’s a child. “Just feel like I’ve missed so much.”    
  
Fiona sighs, and immediately starts in to comfort him in what he is sure would be a thoroughly unhelpful (but valid) effort, but Mickey cuts her off.    
  
“Shut up, you’re fine. Kid’s barely two, you’ve got sixteen fuckin’ years left to witness,” Mickey tells him. His words are a bit abrasive, but he’s honest. 

Fiona shoots him a look for being so crass, but it’s what Ian wanted to hear. It almost sounds like the Mickey he misses, the one who wasn’t afraid to speak up and fight him. 

“I don’t think you’re allowed to curse in here either,” he tells Mickey, a small smile curling up his lips. 

Mickey lets out a laugh, and leans in closer, his elbows on the table. “I do what I want, Gallagher.”    
  
It’s the first good visit they’ve had since Ian’s been locked up. It’s probably because Ian’s in a good mood about leaving, or maybe Mickey and Fiona have just adjusted to seeing him like this. They’ve come every week without fail, and every week it’s been stunted and awkward. Now, though, Mickey’s joking with him. It feels almost natural. 

Still, nothing good can stay. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Did you pick a person?” The counselor asks Ian, folding her hands over the desk. She hands him a paper cup of pills and a bottle of water.

Ian shakes his head.

“No one?” The nurse prompts, and Ian sighs.

“I guess if I had to, I’d say Mickey,” he finally answers. He swallows all the pills at once, and chases them with water.

“Mickey is your… boyfriend?” She asks, confirming. Ian nods. “How long have you two been together?” 

“Since I was fifteen,” he replies, twisting the bottle cap in his hand. He doesn’t have time to explain how complicated their relationship used to be---  how complicated it is now--- but he supposes that was when the whole thing started. 

“That’s a long time,” she tells him, “Why do you think he isn’t a good support system?”    
  
Ian snaps his head up. “I didn’t say that.”    
  
She gives him a half a smile. “You said your support system isn’t good last week.”    
  
“It’s not that he isn’t good,” he huffs out a breath, twisting the bottle cap back on the bottle. No one seems to understand his issue with Mickey, and it’s becoming frustrating. “He’s… fine. He’s doing fine. I just don’t want him to take care of me.” 

“That’s what people in relationships do, Ian,” she replies, softer. “You’re struggling right now. It’s normal for him to take extra care of you.” 

Ian scowls at the table. “He doesn’t have to go around acting like a fucking nurse. He never did any of that before I got sick. Now I’ve got this--- this disorder, and he fucking coddles me.”    
  
“Did he have a reason to before you got sick?”    
  
“I don’t know,” he mutters, “Just, he suddenly wants to go around taking care of me because I’m sick. I don’t want that.”    
  
The counselor nods her head, writes something down in his file. He peeks one eye over the desk to try and see what it is, but he can’t read upside down. 

“Ian, I know it’s hard for you to accept help from other people. You want to be independent, and that’s okay. But you can’t fight all your battles alone.” 

“Why the fuck not?” Ian snaps, getting frustrated. He’s sick of people telling him what he can and can’t do. 

She doesn’t so much as blink, which makes him feel worse. It’s what Mickey does, and he just wants one of them to snap and swing at him.    
  
“Everyone needs support,” she tells him calmly, flipping through Ian’s files, “I see he’s visited you every week for the whole time you’ve been here. It seems like he’s trying to support you, and I think you should let him.”    
  
Ian doesn’t respond, folding his arms over his chest like a petulant child. He knows it’s stupid, but he can’t help but do it anyways.    
  
“I’m going to suggest you bring him with you at least once when you go to therapy, okay? Maybe it’ll help the two of you work out some issues, and you won’t feel smothered anymore.”    
  
Ian gives a humorless laugh. “Mickey’s not really the therapy type.”    
  
She closes the file. “He’s stood by you, Ian. I’m sure he’ll go if you ask.” 

His scowl turns a bit guilty.

“You’ve made great strides here, okay? I’m proud of you,” she tells him, smiles softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning when you’re on your way out.”

With a nod, Ian mutters a quiet thanks and excuses himself from the room.


	2. red, red, red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's finally leaving the hospital after eight long months, and a reunion awaits him at the Milkovich house.

Clutching a small plastic bag, Ian makes the dreaded walk down the hallway towards the neon exit sign. To his left, his counselor urges him forward. To his right, a man he’s never seen before. Security, or something. He wasn’t paying attention when they were introduced, his head buzzing with thoughts of leaving. Getting out, finally. 

When he’d first arrived, he tried to sneak out through the glass doors multiple times. Every time resulted in sedation, so he was unsuccessful. But he thinks it sums up his feelings about this place.

“Alright,” his counselor tells him, as they stop in front of the glass doors. “You’re ready, Ian. You can do it.” 

Typically, all that positive bullshit makes him want to be sick, but the words settle in his stomach. He sort of needs that reminder, that everything isn’t going to go to shit just because he’s leaving the hospital. 

He nods his head, and she gives him her usual happy smile. “Can I hug you?” 

He nods again, and she wraps him up in a hug. “You did good. Don’t forget you can always call if you need me.”    
  
Ian nods a third time, and inhales. “Thanks,” he tells her. He won’t call, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to need it. He tightens his grip on the bag in his hand, and pushes through the double doors. 

Fiona is standing on the other side, with Mickey on one side of her and Lip on the other. Ian briefly thinks that she’s smart to put herself in the middle-- those two have never gotten along, not even when things were good. Lip thinks he’s somehow superior to Mickey, and Mickey wants to fight him. 

“Hey, sweetheart!” Fiona’s exclaiming, and jogging forward so she can wrap Ian up in her arms. Slow and lost in his head, it takes him a minute before he can embrace her back. She presses a kiss to his cheek, and when she pulls back, her smile doesn’t look fake for the first time in a while. “You ready to go home?”

“Been ready for eight months,” Ian comments, stepping forward to let Mickey hug him. Mickey does that thing again where he holds tight to Ian’s clothes, one hand cradling the back of his head.

“Fucking finally,” he mutters in Ian’s ear, “Missed you.” 

Ian breathes out, nods his head to agree. He missed Mickey too, of course. They’d never been apart for this long, unless Mickey was in juvie. Weekly visits just didn’t cut it. 

Lip steps forward and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Let’s get the fuck out of this place.” 

He couldn’t agree more, even though he knows it’s not necessarily  _ good  _ to see him. He’s sure he looks a mess, if his reflection this morning was any indication. He’s got bags under his eyes, his complexion is paler than it’s ever been, and he’s lost a good twenty pounds in this place when he was already lanky. 

Yet here his family still is, telling him it’s good to see him and they missed him.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “Let’s go.”

Mickey wraps an arm around his shoulders, and the four of them head towards the building’s exit.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Somewhere along the ride, Ian falls asleep. He knows this because he wakes up with his head on Mickey’s shoulder, and his siblings are chattering quietly in the front. He can just barely make out what they’re saying, but they sound worried. As they usually do these days, he thinks dismally. 

“Morning,” Mickey greets him, his voice too soft and gentle for Ian’s liking. It’s never been that soft. Even when Ian was upset, he still had that hard edge. And then Ian got sick. It starts to frustrate him again, and he has to remind himself of what his counselor said. Mickey’s been here for him. He can’t fight all his battles alone. It’s normal for people in relationships to take care of each other.

“Hey,” he mumbles back, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “We almost home?” 

Mickey takes a glance out the window, like he has any sense of direction whatsoever. He doesn’t. “Think so. This looks like your street.”    
  
Ian rolls his eyes, and slumps back against the car seat. “Am I going home with you or them?” He asks, and Mickey pauses, like he isn’t sure what to answer. 

“Uh, wherever you want,” he replies, and Ian sees Fiona glance at the two of them through the rearview mirror.

Ian weighs his options. Home, where he’ll see his fuckload of siblings, who he really did miss. A house full of people who want to worry over him and dote on him, people who want to compare him to his mom and shove pills down his throat until he’s better. Or he could go with Mickey, where he’ll see Svetlana, who hates him, and baby Yevgeny, who he isn’t allowed around. And on top of that, he’ll be with Mickey, who will probably keep trying to take care of him.

“Can I go with Mickey?” He asks. One person worrying over him is better than four, he decides.

Fiona’s disappointment is clear in her eyes. Lip’s is too, but he’s a little better at masking it off as a neutral expression. “Of course,” Fiona replies anyways, “Just make sure you come by and say hello to Debbie and Carl, okay? They really missed you.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, because as many bad memories as that house held, he does miss his younger siblings. And it might be nice for them to see him when he isn’t running around like the crazy person that he is. 

Mickey seems to relax on the idea of Ian coming home with him, his eyes flickering to Fiona in a look that Ian isn’t sure how to describe. He’d say thankful, but he isn’t sure that Mickey’s capable of thankful. It seems like an attempt at it, anyways.

When they pull up to the Milkovich house, Ian’s suddenly horribly nervous. Fiona gets out of the car with the two of them, and much to Ian’s surprise, brings Mickey into a tight hug.

Apparently it surprises Mickey too, because he goes completely stiff.

“What the fuck?” He asks, but eventually hugs her back. Fiona gives him a smile, and sighs. “Thank you,” she tells him, “For being there with me all those months.” 

Mickey’s cheeks flush bright red, and he shakes his head. He’s not used to the attention, Ian realizes, he doesn’t know how to react. 

“Uh, it’s fine,” he replies, clears his throat to try and play it off as if it’s nonchalant. Fiona pulls back and squeezes his shoulder, probably figuring she ought to stop embarrassing him for the minute. She pulls Ian into his second hug of the day, and murmurs, “Be good, okay?” in his ear.

“Thanks, Fi,” Ian replies back.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Svet?” Mickey yells as they walk in the house. It’s surprisingly clean. Where there would typically be beer cans and cigarettes littered everywhere, there’s only the ocassional pack here and there. Ian wonders if Svetlana’s been cleaning. 

Mickey catches his eye as he looks around, and flashes Ian a gentle smirk. “Yeah, it looks good in here, right? I picked up and shit, ‘cause I figured you might want to come back.” 

It’s so thoughtful that it almost irks Ian. 

“Looks good,” he agrees, still holding his plastic bag of prescription pills. He sets it down on the counter, and sees Mickey eyeing it. 

“I took them this morning,” he tells him, to get him off his back, “Again tonight. I can handle it.”    
  
Mickey raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, man.”    
  
Svetlana comes around the corner, a two year old Yevgeny on her hip. “Orange boy is back?” She tells Mickey, shooting Ian a look. 

It doesn’t surprise him. She hasn’t been a fan of him ever since the incident with Yevgeny. He can’t blame her, not really.

“Yeah,” Mickey answers, “He’s back and he’s doing better.” 

Svetlana gives him a once over with her eyes, and passes Yevgeny over to a stiffening, awkward Mickey. “I have to go. You take care of baby,” she tells Mickey, before turning to look at Ian. “And you. Do better.” 

“I am,” Ian replies, swallowing. His eyes have started to gloss over with tears at the sight of Yevgeny. He’s gotten so big, and Ian’s sure that he doesn’t remember him. But he could never forget Yevgeny.

Svetlana is out the door, and Mickey’s trying to balance the kid on his hip like Svetlana was doing.

“Daddy, daddy,” Yevgeny is saying, and Mickey’s rolling his eyes. It’s surreal to see him talking, even though Ian had been told about it earlier.

“Yeah, man. I gotta introduce you to someone. You remember Ian?” Mickey talks to the kid like they’re friends. It doesn’t surprise Ian, because Mickey doesn’t seem like the type to participate in baby talk. He thinks it’s cool, anyways, and watches as Mickey shifts Yevgeny around so he’s face to face with a misty-eyed Ian.

“Een?” Yevgeny echoes, all one syllable. It’s not quite Ian, but it’s close, and it makes Ian sniffle.

“Is Een okay?” He asks, and Ian nods his head. He can’t quite come up with the words he wants to say.

“Ian’s fine,” Mickey replies, “He used to watch you when you were a baby.”

Ian swallows hard. Back when Yevgeny was a baby, they’d been like a little family. They were untraditional, but they were close. He wanted it to stay that way, more than anything. But he and his brain just had to go messing it up. It makes his chest ache.

“Oh,” Yevgeny answers, reaching out for Ian. Mickey steps a bit closer, reluctant to give up his hold on the kid. Ian knows why that would be, but it still stings. 

In one swift motion, Yevgeny grabs a hold of Ian’s hair, and chants, “Red, red, red.”

Finally, Ian seems to break out of the little trance he’s been in, and he gives a soft, wet laugh, shaking his head at Yevgeny so his hair flops around. It’s gotten too long in his time in the hospital, but he sort of likes it. Yevgeny giggles at the motion.

“It’s pretty bright, right?” Ian tells him.

“Sorry,” Mickey says, speaking just to Ian now. “I didn’t mean to do this shit so soon. Svet’s been leaving him with me a lot more, though. Think she’s got a date or some shit.”

Ian raises both eyebrows, but can’t quite look up at Mickey, because Yevgeny’s still got a tight grip on his hair. “It’s okay,” he answers, “I can handle it, Mick. I wanted to see him.”

“Come on, Yev,” Mickey tells Yevgeny, “Let go. You don’t wanna rip Ian’s hair out, that shit hurts.” 

“Ouch,” Yevgeny sympathizes, and removes his hand from Ian’s hair. 

Ian’s smiling when he looks back up. He’s a little glassy eyed still, and the fog in his brain hasn’t really lifted, but for the moment, everything’s fine.

 


	3. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therapy, an argument, and a Gallagher family dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-- i have never been to marriage/couples counseling, only counseling for bipolar so these chapters might be a little inaccurate. i tried  
> \-- i love mickey. thats all.

Ian pops open the first bottle and shakes a pill out into his hand. Mood stabilizer. 

He opens the second bottle, and shakes another pill out into his hand. Antipsychotic.

He opens the third bottle, and shakes the last pill out into his hand. Antidepressant.

He eyes every pill like they have a personal vendetta against him, scowling at each one. Sometimes he feels like they do. He feels like shit with them, he feels like shit without them. What the fuck is there to do?

In some room down the hall, he can hear Mickey tucking Yevgeny into bed. He loves that baby, even if the kid barely knows him. He’s always loved that baby, no matter what anyone tells him. He’ll never believe them. He loved that baby so much that he wanted to take him to Disney World. 

He already knows where the glasses are, from his time when he lived here, and he grabs on from above the sink with his right hand, pills still in his left hand. He fills the glass with water. 

Eyeing the pills again, he huffs out a breath. He doesn’t want to do it. He really doesn’t want to do it. On the other hand, his counselor’s voice repeats in his head like a mantra  _ medication compliance medication compliance medication compliance  _ and he eventually decides that taking the shitty pills is better than ending up back in that place.

Downing all the pills at once, he chases them with water.

“You wanna watch a movie or something?” He hears Mickey’s voice from behind him, and turns around. Most of him hopes Mickey didn’t see him taking the pills. Though they both know he does it, it’s something he’d rather keep private. Something he doesn’t want Mickey, or anyone, to see.

However, when he turns around, he can’t be angry at Mickey for sneaking up on him. Mickey looks so hopeful, so he just exhales, and nods. “Yeah. I, uh. I actually wanted to ask you something first.” 

Mickey’s halfway turned back when Ian speaks again. He turns fully to face him, and nods, his face more open than Ian ever remembers it being. 

“My counselor, at the hospital,” he mumbles the word, as if he’s ashamed of Mickey knowing, “They’re making me go to therapy. And she suggested you go with me.”

Both of Mickey’s eyebrows shoot straight up. “She thinks we need therapy? Like fuckin’... marriage counseling?” 

“I think it’s more… mental health counseling,” Ian tries to explain, shaking his head. “It’s fine. It’s stupid, I know.”    
  
“No, wait,” Mickey butts in, shaking his head. “It ain’t stupid. I’ll go with you. When?”    
  
This turn of events surprises Ian just slightly. Despite how irritatingly nice Mickey has been lately, he didn’t expect him to agree to therapy. Actually, he was kind of hoping that he wouldn’t. 

“Tomorrow’s the first one,” He replies, shifting awkwardly. “It’s at noon.” 

  
  
  
  
  


“So, how did the two of you meet?” The therapist, a dark haired man with glasses, looks between Mickey and Ian. 

Mickey snorts quietly, as neither of them know how to answer the question. Ian’s shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“We were on a Little League team together,” Ian finally decides, which makes Mickey shake his head.

“Yeah, man, but I didn’t know you then. We didn’t actually talk until I tried to kill you for not fucking my sister.” 

The therapist blinks rapidly. 

Mickey shoots him a look. “He, uh. He didn’t actually do anything wrong. She said he rejected her, so she wanted us to kill him, but she called us off when they became best friends.”

“Alright,” the therapist scratches something down in a notepad. Mickey looks alarmed, but Ian glances over to let him know that it’s normal. Apparently all therapists do it, because the ones at the hospital definitely did.

“Ian, your records say you’re...” The therapist looks up at Ian over his glasses.

“Bipolar,” Ian answers, before Mickey can. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stop himself from snapping at Mickey if he answered first. 

“Right. And why do you think the hospital suggested you bring Mickey along with you, instead of you seeking help for yourself?”    
  
Ian inhales sharply, and won’t look at Mickey when he answers. “Because he’s been trying too hard to take care of me. I don’t want him too, and everyone thinks I’m doing something wrong.” 

He briefly recognizes that Mickey isn’t speaking any longer, and feels a quiet tinge of guilt. But it disappears when he remembers how shitty being doted on feels.

“Why don’t you want Mickey to take care of you?” 

“Because… Because he was never like that, before. Because he used to act like he didn’t give a shit. And yeah, I know I sort of pushed for more, but I kind of liked it. And then all of the sudden I got sick and he does a complete flip, and now he wants to take care of me and treat me like I’m some… I don’t know. Like I’m fragile or something. And I’m not.”    
  
Ian huffs out a breath, purposefully not looking at Mickey.    
  
“I want to understand a little more about your relationship first. Mickey, do you think you could take me through your relationship when it first started?” The therapist asks, looking at Mickey. Ian finally glances over to him, and Mickey’s gone completely still. 

“Me?” Mickey asks, furrowing his brow, “Nah, man, isn’t this Ian’s thing?” 

“I think it would help him to see your side of things.”    
  
Shifting uncomfortably, Mickey nods his head. “Yeah, okay.”    
  
He inhales, and looks directly at Ian when he speaks. 

“I knew who he was, even before Mandy-- that’s my sister-- asked me to beat the shit out of him. We played on Little League together, and it was hard to forget a freckle-faced, redheaded Gallagher. I reckon that could be Debbie too, but she was a girl. And we all know I wasn’t interested in girls.” 

Ian rolls his eyes. 

“Anyways, uh. So Mandy sent me to beat him up. And he ran away, like a fucking pussy. But then him and Mandy became best friends, or whatever, and I was really fucking confused, but I just went with it. Because she’s my sister, I guess. I’m not gonna kill this guy if she likes him. Anyways, so I started stealing from the store where he worked just to fuck with him. And ‘cause we couldn’t afford shit, but I could’ve stolen it from anywhere else. I stole a gun from this shithead he worked for, and Ian apparently was fucking the guy, so he stabbed me with a fucking tire iron while I was dead asleep.”

Mickey pauses, takes a deep breath. 

“Best thing that ever happened to me, let me tell you. One thing led to another, and we fucked. And then I showed up at the store where he worked, and we fucked again. And I was scared shitless, ‘cause my dad would kill me if he ever found out. Ian knows that, because he’s tried to kill me. Both of us, actually.” 

The therapist nods, rapidly scratching away as Mickey talks. He’s actually rather good at concealing any surprise he might have, but the facade falls every once in a while and reminds the two of them that their relationship is far from conventional.

Ian doesn’t know what to think. It’s the most he’s heard Mickey talk in a long time. Thinking back, it’s probably the most he’s heard Mickey talk ever. Sure, he knows that all of that happened. He remembers it very clearly, but it just feels weird coming out of Mickey’s mouth. It sounds like a story that happened to someone else.

“When Ian said you used to act like you didn’t care, is that true?” 

Mickey nods, shifting in his seat. “Yeah, that’s true.” 

“Why?”

Exhaling, Mickey looks to Ian, speaks directly to him. “Because I was fucking scared.”

“Of your dad?” 

“Yeah, who the fuck else?” Mickey pauses. “Sorry. But, yeah. Of my dad.” 

Ian thinks somewhere in the back of his mind he knew this. Of course Mickey was scared of Terry, who wouldn’t be? But a larger, more stubborn part of him thought that if he loved him, that would prevail. And he wouldn’t be so cold and harsh all the time. Now, though, he’d do anything to go back to cold and harsh.

“Ian?” The therapist asks, and he realizes he’s zoned out a bit. Mickey glances over at him, immediately concerned, and Ian sighs somewhat dramatically.

“I’m fine,” he replies, a bit too snappy, “Just thinking.”

“About?” 

“Mickey’s dad. Mickey acting like he didn’t give a shit about me, and me chasing him around like a… lovesick girl, or something.”    
  
The therapist nods his head, setting his clipboard down in his lap. He casts an extended look over first Mickey, and then Ian. “So what changed?”    
  
“What do you mean?” Ian asks, because he’s more used to this than Mickey. Mickey, who clearly doesn’t know what to say, but was all too willing to dive into their first real encounter. 

“It’s something I want you to think about for next week. What changed? Why is Mickey showing he cares now, and why are you resenting it?” 

“I’m not resenting it,” Ian counters, and Mickey has the nerve to actually roll his eyes. 

“Yeah, the fuck you are, Gallagher. I’m trying to care for you like a proper fuckin’ boyfriend and you’re pissy at me for it,” he retorts, both his eyebrows raising in their typical expressive way.

“Because you’re up my ass all the time!” Ian snaps back, shaking his head, “I’m not a kid, Mick! You don’t need to take care of me all the time!” 

Mickey, for once, has nothing to say for a minute or two. “Fuck you,” he says back eventually, shaking his head, “I’m just trying to fuckin’ care for you.” 

“Fucking stop!” Ian exclaims, whirling his head around to look at Mickey, “I don’t want it!”

The therapist butts in, “Alright, alright. Instead of getting angry with each other, try to think about what I asked you. Next week, when you come in, we’ll talk about what changed between the two of you. For now, I want the both of you to take a step back. Try and see it from the other person’s perspective. Instead of yelling, take a minute or two to do that first.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey deadpans, clearly not wanting to edge Ian on. 

“Okay,” Ian answers, because he’s learned how to hold his tongue.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Mickey forgives Ian for his slight outburst the minute after it’s over. Ian, though, seethes for a few more hours.    
  
“Your sister invited us for dinner,” he tells Ian, smoking a cigarette on the couch while Yevgeny naps in his room, “Figured it’s probably time we get over there.”    
  
Ian shrugs, and takes the cigarette with a nod when it’s offered to him. He inhales, and exhales smoke, before he speaks. “All of my siblings will be there?”    
  
“Yeah,” Mickey replies, leaning back against the couch. Ian can feel Mickey’s eyes on him as he smokes, but they aren’t worried. It’s actually like Mickey is admiring him, for a nice change. It’s what finally makes him get over what happened earlier. 

“Okay,” Ian replies, passing the cigarette back, “Can I borrow a shirt?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey answers again, half a smile quirking up his lips, “You can borrow a fuckin’ shirt.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Ian shows up to the front door of his childhood home wearing one of Mickey’s rare button down shirts, holding the hand of previously mentioned Milkovich. Despite his recent anger and hostility towards Mickey, he still wants to keep him close.    
  
It’s Mickey that opens the door, seeing how Ian hesitates. As soon as they’re inside, Ian is met with Liam running up to him, wrapping himself around Ian’s legs.    
  
“Hey, little man,” Ian almost smiles, leaning down to ruffle Liam’s hair. 

The kid still doesn’t talk much, so he gives Mickey a wave. Mickey waves back, figuring he might as well.

“Ian!” It’s Debbie they see next, and she’s jogging too, wrapping her arms around her brother. Ian lets go of Mickey’s hand so he can hug her back, feeling both sad and happy and guilty all at once. It’s a rough combination.

“Hey, Debs,” he replies, “Missed you.” 

She brightens up at that, letting go of Ian to step back and take a good look at him. “I missed you too, so much. Hey, Mickey.” 

Mickey nods back, mutters a “Hey.” To Ian’s amusement, he’s still quite awkward around the Gallaghers. To be fair, they’re completely different from Mickey’s family.

The three of them make their way into the kitchen, where Fiona’s preparing some type of pasta. Ian doesn’t know what it is, but it smells fucking great compared to psychiatric hospital food. She pauses what she’s doing to kiss him on the cheek, oven mitt still on one hand, and to wave to Mickey. Ian briefly wonders when Mickey started getting along so well with his family. Last he checked, Fiona thought he was a no good thug. He guesses some things change with eight months worth of hospital visits together.

“Sup?” Carl nods at both of them from the table, and Ian smiles a little, glad that at least somebody’s acting like he’s normal.

“Hey, Carl,” Ian replies, and takes a seat beside him. Mickey sits down beside Ian, and Debbie brings Liam in to sit with her across from them. 

“Where’s Lip?” Ian asks Fiona, and she sighs. “He had to go back to class. He says he’s really sorry, though, and he wants you to call him.” 

Ian nods, a sufficient answer, and takes a moment to glance around the room. With all the people in here, it almost seems normal. Except Fiona’s glancing over at him every couple of minutes, Debbie keeps offering him comforting smiles, and Mickey’s looking at nobody in the room except for him. He guesses that last part isn’t so weird, though.

“Alright, here’s dinner,” Fiona announces, bringing in a dish of pasta and setting it in the middle of the already set table. She takes her seat beside Liam, across from Mickey.

Halfway through dinner, and everything’s going fine, much to Ian’s surprise. Nobody is asking him weird questions, though everyone’s been trying their hardest to not mention the hospital. It’s like they’re pretending he didn’t even go.

Of course, it’s Carl that breaks that routine. “So, what was it like in there? Was it like prison?” 

“Carl!” Fiona snaps.    
  
“It’s fine,” Ian tells her, “No, it wasn’t like prison. We did have bunks and stuff, though. And the food was shit.”    
  
“Did they give you shock therapy?”    
  
“Carl!” Fiona exclaims again, shooting him a glare. It makes Mickey snicker. 

“No,” Ian shakes his head, choosing to ignore his sister, “They made us do yoga and stuff, though. And color.” 

“Sounds boring,” Carl comments, Ian’s descriptions apparently being enough for him. 

It’s then Ian realizes that everyone’s gone quiet. He doesn’t know why they’re skipping over the subject. It’s not like he wasn’t in the hospital, because he was. “It’s fine,” he repeats, “Jesus, guys.”

Surprisingly, it’s Mickey who helps get the conversation going again. “Bet this pasta’s a nice fucking change, then. You make this shit?” He gestures to Fiona with his fork.

Ian relaxes, thankful for once that Mickey has his back. He doesn’t know when Mickey started to pick up on his body language so well, but he does know that he was just saved from an awkward moment, so he’s alright with it.

“I did, actually, thanks,” Fiona grins at Mickey, “Debbie helped with the sauce.”    
  
Mickey shakes his head, “Me and Mary Poppins over here could use some tips. We fuckin’ suck.” 

Fiona goes on a list of how to properly cook pasta, and Debbie and Carl get caught up in bickering over who’s going to eat the last of it. Ian shoots Mickey a thankful glance, and Mickey shrugs it off. It makes Ian sigh, but not in a bad way. Maybe he did need to start appreciating Mickey more. Even if he did get a little overbearing.


	4. pills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian has a bad day.

Ian spends that night curled up around Mickey in Mickey’s bed, one arm underneath him and one arm thrown haphazardly around his waist. It’s peaceful, and it’s content, and for the night, he forgets how upset he’s been with Mickey and how rocky their relationship has been.

 

The next day passes and Ian spends most of it in bed. Mickey only leaves his side to smoke and eat, and he brings Ian small plates of whatever he eats. Ian isn’t sad, per se, but he’s exhausted. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s just come home from the hospital, or if he’s about to enter an episode, but Mickey doesn’t question it. As long as Ian takes his pills in the morning, and at night, he lets him sleep. 

 

 

When he wakes up the next morning, Mickey is gone. The realization of this causes him to shoot awake, eyes going wide. However, it’s stupid. He’s always been the one to disappear, he thinks guiltily, not Mickey. Mickey has always stayed. 

From the living room, soft voices filter in. Mickey’s, he notes first, and relief floods his gut. Svetlana, second, and a little giggle that he soon comes to recognize as Yevgeny. 

He sighs, and settles back into the mattress. Not today, he wills his brain, but the universe is out to get him and the fog is back. Closing his eyes, he pulls the blankets tighter around him. 

“Hey, sleepyhead.” 

It’s Mickey, from the doorway. Though Ian’s facing the other way, and can’t see him, he seems hesitant to enter. Probably because it’s a familiar sight to see Ian curled up like this. 

“You got therapy later, yeah?” 

Ian sighs. They’ve decided that while Ian goes twice a week, Mickey will only come on one of those days. That way Ian has the other day to focus on himself. 

Clearing his throat, he figures bitterly that he ought to answer before Mickey panics. 

“Yeah,” he responds, voice still hoarse from lack of use. “What time is it?” 

“Little after noon,” comes Mickey’s response, his voice closer than before, “Your appointment’s at two.” 

Ian nods his head. 

“You want me to get your pills?” Mickey asks, shifting his weight around. 

Ian scowls at the wall in front of him. He can lay here and not take them, or he can get them himself. As far as he’s concerned, those are the only options. Mickey doesn’t need to involve himself. 

“No,” he replies, more firmly than before. 

“You gonna get them yourself?” Mickey challenges. Ian knows his expressions so well by now that he can practically see the eyebrow raise. 

“You gonna freak out if I don’t?” Ian replies, his back still to his boyfriend. He hears Mickey’s soft groan, and thinks that’s his answer. 

“I’m gonna be pretty pissed,” Mickey admits, “Seeing as you don’t want me to take care of you, but you won’t do it yourself.” 

Ian doesn’t respond, slumping further into the mattress. He doesn’t want to admit that it’s a pretty valid point. 

“Whatever, man,” Mickey continues, his voice turning away, “I’m going to get them, since you can’t do it yourself.” 

“No.” Ian deadpans, sitting up. Before he can realize what he’s doing, he’s swung his feet off the bed and stands up, face to face with Mickey. Mickey looks amused, and raises both eyebrows.

“Got you out of bed,” he says, and Ian groans. He should’ve known. Mickey’s tactics were getting better and better though, and resigned to already being up, Ian followed him out of the bedroom. 

Svetlana is sat on the couch, Yevgeny beside her, with some kids show playing on the television. Ian waits until they aren’t looking at him before he fills a glass with water, and downs all three pills at the same time, chasing them with water.

He feels a bit like a zombie, and probably looks the part, his eyes glassy and tired. Maybe he’s overwhelmed with being home, or maybe it’s just his brain acting up, but he wants to do nothing more than curl back up in bed. Sighing, he rubs his eyes. 

“You okay?” Mickey asks, leaning against the counter. 

Ian frowns. “You know, I really hate being asked that.” 

Mickey shrugs, taking the glass of water from Ian’s hand to sip it. “Sorry. You just look like a damn zombie again.” 

Ian watches him for a minute, expressionless and unfeeling. “I feel like one,” he eventually says. 

“C’mon,” Mickey offers him a hand, and walks him into the living room. He sits Ian down next to Yevgeny, and takes a seat on Ian’s other side. 

“What’re you watching, kid?” He asks Yevgeny, who gestures excitedly towards the screen. “Simon!” He exclaims, and Mickey nods. “Cool.” 

“Een watch with me?” Yevgeny asks, and Ian realizes why Mickey brought him over here. He couldn’t continue to walk around and be mad at the world when there is a two year old who wants him to watch a show about animated rabbits. 

“Yeah,” Ian agrees, even though he feels Svetlana’s eyes burning into his skull. “Course I will.” 

 

 

“How are you feeling today?” Ian’s therapist asks, peeking over his glasses to take a look at the redhead. Ian thinks that he can probably tell just by looking at him, so he doesn’t get the purpose of the question. Actually, it even makes him roll his eyes. 

“I hate that question,” he responds, “I’m fine.” 

“Are you?” The therapist questions, raising one eyebrow. It reminds Ian a little of Mickey, and he looks away. 

“I’m just tired,” Ian replies, unwilling to expand more than that. In all honesty, today probably isn’t the best day for therapy. He isn’t feeling very good, and so he isn’t feeling very cooperative, which is much how his earlier days at the hospital went. It’s part of why his stay was so long-- when he really wants to be, Ian can be quite uncooperative and hard to deal with. 

“Tired how?” 

Ian huffs out a slightly dramatic sigh, folding his arms over his chest. “Just tired.” 

His therapist writes something quickly down, before his eyes are staring into Ian again.  
“You only get out of therapy what you put into it,” he points out, “If you don’t talk, I won’t know how to help you.” 

Ian stares at the desk in front of him, because frankly, he doesn’t even want to be here. He’d rather be at home, curled up in bed, or even sitting on the couch with Yevgeny and Svetlana. Anywhere but in a small office, where he’s forced to talk about how he feels. He doesn’t feel, and that’s the primary problem. 

“I don’t want to take my pills,” Ian announces, after five or so minutes have passed in silence. 

The therapist raises an eyebrow at him. “Why?” 

“They do this to me,” Ian gestures to his tired expression and messy hair, “They turn me into a zombie.” 

“Did you feel like this yesterday?” 

“I slept all day yesterday,” He answers, running a hand through his hair to try and fix it. “I wasn’t sad, I just… couldn’t get up.” 

The therapist nods, writing something down. Ian tries and fails to see what it is. 

“How about the day before?” 

Ian shakes his head, sighs mostly to himself. “That day was fine.”

That day was considerably good, even though he’d gotten into a spat with Mickey in this office. And the day before that was alright, too. He doesn’t remember feeling this exhausted on either of those days. 

“It’s not the pills,” his therapist decides, challenging Ian to disagree with a look. “It’s your head. Remember, the pills aren’t a perfect fix. When your circumstances are stressful, it’s not unexpected that your mood might fluctuate a little. You just got out of the hospital, Ian, it’s normal to be a little tired and down.” 

Ian groans. “If they don’t even fix me, why take them?” 

“Because they help. Without them, you wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. True? And you might feel bad now, but you’re out of bed. You’re here. And that’s a victory.” 

Ian can’t think of anything smart to say back, because it feels at least a little true. He knows that if he was off the pills, he would be teary eyed and curled up in Mickey’s bed, yelling at his boyfriend to leave him alone. Instead, he feels like shit, but he’s out of bed and not crying. It’s shit, and it’s not even a good solution, but he guesses it’s better than the alternative. 

 

 

“Daddy, look, look, look at me,” is the first thing Ian hears when he walks back into the Milkovich house. He shuts the door behind him, and puts his coat back on the rack. 

He stops where he is to watch the sight before him. Yevgeny, in all his brunette toddler glory, is running around the couch as fast as he can, evidently trying to outrun Mickey, who looks both overwhelmed and amused. The kid is stumbling and just in a little jog, but Mickey is playing along and pretending like he’s having a hard time catching up.

“Aye, come on!” Mickey calls to him, trying to chase the two year old in order to catch him-- at least Ian thinks so, anyways, as he’s never predicted that he’d see Mickey play tag, or something of the likes, “You’re so fuckin’ fast, man! When’d you get so fast?” 

Yevgeny erupts into a fit of giggles, sounding so happy that it brings a smile to Ian’s face. The domesticity is all he’s ever wanted from Mickey, and it makes his shit day a little better. He yawns, and Yevgeny catches sight of him, running over until he’s standing at Ian’s feet. 

“Red, red, red,” he chants, pointing up at Ian’s hair. 

Ian rubs his eyes and bends down, getting on one knee so Yevgeny can get a better look at his hair. “Your dad used to call me that,” he tells the kid, both fond and sad at the memory. 

Yevgeny babbles something back that Ian doesn’t quite get, and Mickey appears behind him. Ian isn’t sure if it’s because he wants to greet the two of them, or because he doesn’t trust Ian with the kid. Probably a combination of both, he thinks bitterly. 

“Hey,” Mickey greets him, kneeling down so they’re face to face. “You doing better?” 

Ian nods, doing his best to not be irritated with the question. Mickey means well, he reminds himself. Mickey then stands, and ruffles Yevgeny’s hair. “Alright. Me and Yev were thinking about getting a pizza, or something. That good with you?” 

Ian nods again, standing after Mickey. “Yeah. That’s fine.” 

To his slight surprise, Mickey presses a soft kiss right to his cheek, and nods as he pulls back. “Cool, man. I’ll order it, if you wanna set this one--” he gestures to Yevgeny-- “In front of the TV. He could watch that Simon rabbit shit for hours.”

“Simon!” Yevgeny agrees, and therefore validates Mickey’s point. Ian briefly wonders when Mickey started taking such an active role in the kid’s life. A lot must have changed while he was locked up, because last he remembers, Mickey didn’t want anything to do with Yevgeny. Until Ian kidnapped him, that is. 

And then he blinks, as he’s just been given responsibility with the kid. Responsibility he wasn’t sure he was ever going to get back. Sure, it’s small, and Mickey’s still in the house, but it feels so good to be trusted that he doesn’t care. “Okay,” he responds, almost instantly, “Come on, Yev, let’s go watch it.”


	5. love and shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian pulls his head out of his ass, Mickey uses his words, and they have a breakthrough.

Though much of the next week passes by without incident, Ian can’t help but notice that Mickey is tense. As in, more tense than usual, which seems like it would be difficult, considering Mickey is typically always uncomfortable and stiff. But now, now it’s even worse. 

Ian can’t help but feel that it’s partially his fault. Mostly his fault, more likely. The more time he spends out of the hospital the more he thinks that everything is going to be shit no matter what he does. Pills or not, in bed or up, therapy or closing himself off, nothing works.

He wakes up that morning with Mickey curled tightly around him, head on Ian’s chest, an arm thrown over him, and his hands curled in Ian’s shirt as if Ian’s going to disappear right from underneath him.

Given his track record, it wouldn’t be completely surprising. Ian’s always been flighty, he thinks bitterly, and this disorder isn’t helping. 

His head is a little less foggy than it has been lately, so he outstretches one arm to click his phone awake and check the time.

“Shit,” he mutters when he sees it, and shakes Mickey gently awake. “Mick, hey. Wake up.” 

Mickey mumbles something incoherent, and his eyes flutter open. For a moment, Ian feels that spark he used to-- Mickey, sleepy eyed and just barely smiling, manages to wake him up just a little. He feels more drawn to Mickey than he has in months, and his breath hitches in his throat with emotion.

And then Mickey’s eyes fill with worry, and the moment is over.

“Wha?” Mickey mutters, blinking himself awake, “What’s up?” 

Ian sighs, “Nothing. We have therapy in an hour.” Couples therapy, he reminds himself. Because his life is just that fucked up. Eighteen, and in multiple types of counseling. Better than eighteen and dead, he thinks bitterly, which seems like it'd be the alternative   
  
He pulls himself from his thoughts when Mickey yawns, and somehow manages to curl closer into him. “Let me sleep for ten more minutes,” Mickey mutters, and Ian wraps one arm around him, pulling him in close. 

“Okay,” he replies, choosing to close his eyes and ignore everything that’s been going wrong for the past few months. Mickey’s scent is still his favorite scent, and he thinks that has to count for something.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Did you think about what I asked?” The therapist asks them, lifting his eyes to glance first at Ian, and then Mickey. Both boys nod, one more tentatively than the other. 

“And?”

“I got sick,” Ian answers first, “That’s just… that’s all I can think of that would be different.” It’s unsurprising, and he’s said it multiple times, but he’s too caught up in his head to think of anything that would have changed between when Mickey was pretending to not give a shit, and when Mickey started acting like his nurse.

Next to him, Mickey isn’t looking at him, but is instead staring straight ahead at the desk. Ian can tell he’s uncomfortable, just by the way he’s holding his shoulders.

“Mickey?” The therapist asks, and it’s enough for Mickey to look up. 

“Uh, I came out,” Mickey answers, nodding his head curtly. 

Ian blinks, because it isn’t what he was expecting. He wasn’t expecting Mickey to agree with him, per se, but he wasn’t expecting that.

“Can you expand on that?” The therapist asks, and Ian is grateful for that, because he was just about to ask the same thing.

“Yeah,” Mickey replies, shifting in his chair. “I, uh. Back when I was pretending like I didn’t give a shit about Ian, I was in the closet and scared shitless to come out. And then I came out, and I guess that’s when I started… showing that I cared more, or whatever. Because I wasn’t scared anymore. And I just wanted to fucking love him, I guess. And be loved back. And then Ian had his first low the next day, and just… I don’t know, man. Fucking bad timing, I guess.” 

Ian lifts his eyes just enough to look at Mickey, because he wasn’t expecting to hear something so heartfelt from the man next to him. Heartfelt didn’t typically describe Mickey’s way with words, but his short speech punched Ian directly in the gut.

“Fuck,” Ian mumbles, his eyes stinging as he pulls them away from Mickey to look to the ground. Mickey’s eyes are burning into his head, and he inhales, before he can finally look up again. “I’ve been a fucking asshole.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees, and Ian can hear him shift awkwardly again. “Yeah, man. You really have.” 

Ian takes a deep breath, bringing his eyes to look up from the ground. When he lifts his head, before he can speak, Mickey beats him to it.

“Hey, Ian, don’t. It’s fine,” Mickey shakes his head, obviously seeing the look on Ian’s face.

Ian mirrors the head shake, huffing out a breath. The familiar irritation is back, and he clenches his teeth. “Don’t, Mick,” he replies, “Don’t say it’s fine when it isn’t.”

The therapist chooses now to reenter the conversation, and is surprisingly agreeing with Ian, for once. “Ian’s right on this one, Mickey. You should be honest about your feelings instead of just saying that it’s fine.” 

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. It’s as if Ian can literally see his walls move up and down. “You want me to be honest about how I feel?” He asks, mostly to Ian, because that’s where his eyes are. 

“Of course I do, come on. You don’t have to keep stuff from me just because I’m sick,” Ian replies, because he’s clueless to how Mickey feels about him, or anything, as of lately.

Exhaling, Mickey shakes his head. He’s never been a very open person, Ian knows this, but it seems like lately he’s been even more resistant to expressing his feelings.

“Fine,” he eventually replies, “You fucking hurt me, man. You’ve cheated on me, you took Yev, you made a fucking porno, you flushed your pills. I forgave you for all that shit, Ian. I wasn’t even mad. I understood, man. Or I tried to get it, anyways. But I don’t get this shit. I don’t get why the fuck you’re allowed to push me to come out, but I’m not allowed to ask if you’re okay. You’re allowed to push me away and act like you don’t give a fuck, and I’m not allowed to pull you back in. I’m just trying to be a proper fucking boyfriend, man. I just want you to be fucking happy and healthy and shit.” 

Being punched in the face probably would’ve hurt less. At least that wouldn’t be completely his fault. Part of him wants to go back to when Mickey would just hit him instead of talking about how he feels. That was easier on both of them. Ian sniffles, and he sees the regret flash through Mickey’s eyes, but he shakes his head. “No, keep going. I need to hear it, I think.”    
  
“Yeah. Okay. You’ve been acting like a real dickhead lately, getting mad at me when I’m trying to help you. You’re getting pissed at me and I’m trying to figure out what the fuck I’m doing wrong.” 

Ian blinks the wetness from his eyes, shaking his head. He’s not used to being confronted so suddenly with feelings. For eight months, he didn’t have to deal with how this was affecting everyone around him. Now, though, he’s back, and all of his relationships have gone to shit. But especially his one with Mickey.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Ian answers, finally. “You’re not. Just, I need to be independent. I know you’re trying to help. And I’m gonna let you. I’m just… I don’t know. Not used to anybody trying so hard to take care of me.” He gives Mickey a watery smile, letting him know that they’re okay. No matter what happens, they’ll be okay.

“I know, man, but that’s what we do,” Mickey replies, shrugging his shoulders as if he’s nonchalant about the whole thing. Ian knows he’s not. He’s been able to read Mickey’s body language effectively for quite a while now.

“We take care of each other,” Mickey continues, even though Ian hasn’t been contributing to that lately, “When things are shit, we pick each other up. You know, love and shit.”

Ian breaks out into a real smile at that. “Yeah, love and shit.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Their appointment ended an hour ago, but Mickey and Ian are still outside the office building, leaning up against it. Ian’s eyes are still a little red, but his shoulders are relaxed, one of his arms wrapped around Mickey’s shoulders. Mickey has a cigarette dangling from his lips and Ian watches as he takes a slow, long drag, before pulling the cigarette out and exhaling, his eyes closing at the motion. He opens them again to offer Ian the cigarette, and Ian takes it with half a smile. 

“Thanks,” Ian replies, placing it between his lips to inhale. Mickey nods.

A moment of silence passes between them. When it ends, it’s broken by Mickey.

“I love you,” he blurts out, cheeks flushing with the embarrassment of saying it. Ian figures he probably hasn’t said it to very many people before, not even his family.

It’s familiar, because he said it on Ian’s voicemail when he was in Indiana. Still, his voice was thick with worry and fear the first time. Now, he sounds slightly anxious, but mostly content. Unlike the first time, Ian isn’t going to let it go unanswered.

“I love you,” he echoes, and pulls Mickey in close, pressing a firm kiss to the top of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus how many times did i say cigarette in that last part


	6. pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pancakes, and more Gallaghers.

Ian wakes up in the same way he has been lately: with Mickey clinging to him. He has one arm thrown around Ian’s waist, his hands knotted into the fabric of his shirt, and his face pressed up against Ian’s shoulder. Even their legs are tangled together. He knows it isn’t how they fell asleep last night, so somewhere in the night they shifted into this position. Part of him wants to ask when Mickey got so into cuddling, but then again, they’ve spent eight months apart. If Mickey wants to snuggle up to him, he’ll let him do it. 

He’s feeling much better, much more awake, so he detangles himself slowly from Mickey’s grasp. Mickey stirs, but ultimately snuggles his face back into the pillow and settles into sleep. It brings half a smile to Ian’s face. 

In the kitchen, it’s weirdly quiet. He pours himself a glass of water, and shakes three pills-- one from each bottle-- into his hand. This time, he doesn’t look at them before tossing them all into his mouth, downing them with a sip of water. 

Since he’s feeling better, he wants to take advantage of it. Maybe go see his siblings. But it’s way too early for that now, so he grabs a mixing bowl from the Milkovich cabinets, and starts making pancakes. Yevgeny likes pancakes, right? He doesn’t know, but, kids usually do. And Mickey does. 

He’s halfway through mixing his batter when Yevgeny wobbles into the room, Svetlana close behind him. “You guys like pancakes?” He asks, and Yevgeny brightens, breaking into his little stumbling jog to join Ian in the kitchen. 

“I help?” He asks, and Ian nods. “C’mere, little man.” 

He lifts Yevgeny so he can hold him above the counter, and passes him the whisk. It looks ridiculously big in Yev’s tiny hands, but brings a smile to Ian’s face as he starts to clumsily mix the batter together. Still, it’s taking forever, so Ian shifts Yevgeny to his hip and takes the whisk back. 

“Alright, good job. I got it from here,” he tells the kid, finishing it up. Setting the bowl back down on the counter, he turns the stove on and places a pan on it, one of the only ones the house has. 

He spots Svetlana from across the kitchen, and she’s watching him carefully, as if any minute he’s going to snap on the kid or take off. He sighs, shaking his head. It seemed like it would be that way forever, he thought dismally, even if it had only been a week or so. Maybe Mickey could talk her out of it. 

Waving one hand over the pan, he decides it’s sufficiently hot, and pours batter onto it in several spots. Amused, Yevgeny giggles from his position on Ian’s hip. Though he isn’t sure how such a happy kid came from the two most serious people he knows, it still makes Ian smile. 

He flips the last pancake on the plate, and is walking into the living room with Yevgeny in one hand and the plate in the other when he hears his name from the other room. 

“Ian?” 

It’s Mickey, and he sounds worried at the least, panicked at the most. “Ian?” He calls again, and before Ian has time to answer, Mickey is bursting into the kitchen, his eyes wide and his hair still messy from sleep. Setting Yevgeny down carefully, Ian can see that Mickey’s hands are shaking, and his breathing is slightly ragged. 

“Hey,” Ian starts carefully, setting the pancakes down on the table. “Hey, Mick, what’s wrong?” It feels a bit weird to have their typical roles reversed, but he steps up anyways, offering one hand out to pull Mickey in. 

To his great surprise, Mickey practically flings himself into Ian’s arms, balling his fists up in Ian’s shirt. 

He waits until Mickey relaxes a bit before asking again, “What’s wrong?” 

“Fuck,” Mickey mutters, stepping back in clear embarrassment. Ian leaves one hand around his waist still, his eyes scanning his boyfriend’s face. 

“Fuck,” Mickey repeats, “Sorry.” 

Ian shakes his head, confusion written all over his features. “What happened?” 

There’s a beat of silence, in which Ian can tell Mickey doesn’t want to answer. Finally, his eyes averted out of embarrassment, he replies, “I thought you left.” 

Ian had heard yesterday how much his actions had been hurting Mickey, but he had yet to see it for himself. Now, though, he was stunned into silence, his eyes slightly widening. 

More than anything, he felt like such an asshole. 

He watches Mickey’s expression change, and figures he probably thought Ian’s surprise was offense. Maybe last week it would have been, maybe even yesterday, but the look on Mickey’s face makes him feel so bad that he can’t place his hurt above the other’s. 

Carefully, he wraps Mickey back up in his arms, presses his face to his hair. “Mick,” he exhales, taking notice of how quickly Mickey relaxes, “I’m so fucking sorry.” 

Mickey’s head snaps up at that. Both of them know he isn’t talking about waking up earlier this morning. Ian doesn’t think he’s ever apologized for everything he’s done, not to Mickey. He can see how it would be a surprise, as before the hospital, he wasn’t even taking responsibility for his actions-- much less apologizing-- but the look of sheer panic on Mickey’s face minutes earlier is too much for him to see without apologizing. 

Mickey huffs out a breath, but doesn’t pull back from Ian’s hold. “It’s… yeah,” he mutters, “I forgave you. Just get better, and don’t do that shit again, man. That’s all I ask.” 

Ian sighs, nodding his head. “I’m trying.” 

“I know,” Mickey responds, stepping back from the embrace to get a good look at Ian’s face. One of his hands moves up to cup Ian’s cheek, just for a second, before it’s down by his side again. It’s the sweetest Ian has let him be in months. 

Ian gives him half a smile, encouraging him that it’s alright. Ian’s done fighting. 

“You made breakfast?” Mickey asks, and Ian gives a short laugh, nodding his head. “Yeah. Yevgeny helped.” 

 

 

Since it’s been a while, Mickey and Ian decide to stop by the Gallaghers. Ian’s relationship with Mickey isn’t the only one that needs repairing, though it is perhaps the most damaged. His relationship with Fiona and Lip could use a bit of work as well. 

They stop in for lunch, and this time Ian doesn’t hesitate or stop in front of the door. He and Mickey walk through it together, hand in hand. 

“Hey!” Fiona’s ecstatic to see them, wrapping Ian up in a tight hug. “You look good, sweetface! You feel good?” 

Ian nods his head, the question no longer filling him with harsh irritation. His sister sounds so damn hopeful that even if it wasn’t true, he’d probably tell her it was. 

“Better,” he replies honestly as they seperate. 

“Good,” Fiona smiles at him, her hand lingering on his shoulder. She then swoops in and pulls Mickey into a hug, making him stiffen and still with awkward surprise. “Jesus,” he mutters, and Ian chuckles softly at the look on his face. 

“You’re gonna have to get used to that, sweetie,” she tells Mickey, and he awkwardly wraps his arms around her for a second. Ian’s heart soars slightly with pride as they pull apart. Never would he have imagined that his older sister would be hugging Mickey in their living room, but as he’s well figured out, he was terrible at predicting how things were going to go. 

“Are you guys hungry?” She asks, walking back to the kitchen with the two of them on her heels, “I can make sandwiches or something.” 

Ian shakes his head, “Not really. We mostly just wanted to come say hi to you, and catch up, and stuff. What did I miss?” 

She takes a seat at the table, and the other two follow as Fiona starts in on a story about Carl’s latest antics, and Debbie’s high school drama. It brings a bright smile to Ian’s face, and makes Mickey snicker every now and them. The Gallaghers are nothing if not dramatic, and Ian feels much better to be involved with it again. 

Debbie joins them about halfway through, happy as ever to see Ian, though she promptly refutes any claims that Fiona’s made about her boy troubles. Mickey offers to kick the ass of any boy who gives her trouble, and Debbie’s grin practically splits her face open. 

“Careful,” Ian comments, pulling Mickey in close to him by his arm, “She’ll take you up on that, and you’ll have a lot of ass kicking to do.” 

Mickey shrugs nonchalantly, “I don’t mind.”


	7. thoughts and fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A therapy session, a moment with Svetlana, and Ian's doubts.

Ian and Mickey spend that night at the Gallaghers, squished together in Ian’s single bed. They don’t really fit, but neither minds being a little too close for comfort. Though it’s just one night, Fiona’s clearly happy to have them back. Ian thinks she’s mostly relieved that she can check up on him personally without having to go down the street or call Mickey, who is not very personable even over the phone. 

After a day or two they head home, and at least one person there is happy to see them. Yevgeny bounces for a solid minute between the two boys, and Mickey mocks offense when he ends up in Ian’s arms. 

The next few days fly by without incident. Ian is learning to take care of himself, for both himself and Mickey. He’s learning to not push Mickey away. Unsurprisingly, his life is quite a bit easier when Mickey starts leaving food beside his pill bottles so he remembers to eat before taking them. He never, ever wanted his pills to become a symbol of domesticity between the two of them, but here they are. 

His next therapy appointment is the following morning, and Mickey sets his alarm the night before. 

 

 

“How are you feeling today?” The therapist asks him, and Ian notes that he doesn’t shift uncomfortably at the question this time. He’s probably just getting used to it, but he likes to think he’s getting better at accepting help. 

“Better,” Ian replies, and the therapist nods approvingly, but he continues, “And worse.” 

With a familiar eyebrow raise, his therapist looks up from his notes. “Why is that?” 

He has to think about it for a minute or two. Mentally, he’s better. He doesn’t feel foggy, and he doesn’t want to go home and curl up in bed. He’s not bouncing off the walls, either. But the better he gets, the more he can see how his actions have impacted the people around him. And it isn’t pretty, not at all.

Ian shrugs, leans back in the chair. “I mean, I’m adjusting better. I’m not sad or really tired or manic. I just feel guilty.” 

 

“Why?” 

Biting the inside of his cheek, Ian takes a minute to look away. It isn’t the first time thoughts like this have crossed his mind, but it’s one of the most predominant. “I just… I don’t know. I hurt him so much.” 

“You mean Mickey?” 

“Yeah, Mickey,” he repeats, inhaling, and then exhaling, as if to steady himself. “Sometimes I think he’d be better off without me. I know he doesn’t want me to leave but, shouldn’t he?” 

His therapist looks thoroughly unimpressed. Though this confuses Ian, he figures it’s probably good to have someone call him out on his bullshit. Otherwise he’d just keep thinking it, or do something stupid, like break up with Mickey and immediately regret it.

“Do you want to leave him?” 

Ian snaps his head up. “What? No, Jesus. I just think he might be happier without me.” 

“I don’t think that’s your decision to make, Ian.” 

Ian furrows his brow, picking at a string on his shirt. He shakes his head, lifting his eyes back up to meet with the therapist’s. “But Mickey’s never gonna make that decision. Because I’m sick.” 

“Because he loves you,” his therapist corrects, “Not everything is about your illness, Ian.” 

He takes a minute to let the words settle in his stomach, both sentences. Mickey loves him. Not everything revolves around his disorder. Mickey loves him. Not everything revolves around his disorder.

“Okay,” he decides, “Yeah, I get it. I just have to work on being a better partner.” 

“Exactly, and you’ll get there. Maybe you should talk to him about how you’re feeling.” 

“Like in one of our sessions?” Ian asks, folding his hands back in his lap. Part of him still can’t believe that Mickey agreed to go to counseling with him. It just seems like something that Mickey definitely would not do. 

“In one of your sessions,” his therapist agrees, “Or even just at home.” 

 

 

 

When he reenters the Milkovich house, Svetlana is in the living room, and Mickey’s smoking in the kitchen. She looks generally displeased, and Mickey looks mostly content, but slightly irritated. If Svetlana didn’t hate him so much, Ian would be happy to walk into the home of his little family. 

“Hey,” he greets, pecks Mickey’s cheek and steals his smoke for a drag. He exhales, and then passes it back to a grumpy-faced boyfriend. 

Mickey nods in greeting, and Ian looks between the two other adults in the house. “What’s going on?” He asks, and Svetlana scowls at the two of them. “It is bad to smoke around baby.” 

“Where is Yev?” Ian asks, glancing around. 

“He is asleep in bedroom,” Svetlana gestures, “Piece of shit husband cannot smoke outside, instead he gives us all cancer.” 

Half a smile curls up Ian’s lips, if only because Yevgeny’s mother is so protective of him. 

“Lay off,” Mickey retorts, “I’ve been smoking since I was a little kid, I don’t have cancer.” 

“Not yet,” Svetlana forewarns, and Mickey rolls his eyes. It’s dangerous territory, Ian thinks, to argue with Svetlana. She can be pretty scary. Still, he’s pretty sure this isn’t the first time they’ve disagreed over something involving Yevgeny.

“Why don’t you stuff a towel under his door?”

Both Mickey and Svetlana look at him. And then, like it was rehearsed, they both ask, “Why?” 

Ian chuckles, shaking his head. The other two look horrified that they’ve spoken in unison. They’ve spent so much time together lately, it wouldn’t surprise Ian if it wasn’t the first time.  
“It’ll keep the smoke from getting in his bedroom. Me and Lip used to do it all the time when we wanted to smoke weed without Fiona knowing.” He smiles fondly at the memory. 

Like Mickey, he doesn’t think that a little secondhand smoke from far away is really going to be terrible for Yevgeny, but he wants to get on Svetlana’s good side. And besides, he thinks it’s a fair compromise. 

“Sounds good to me,” Mickey shrugs, raising both eyebrows to look at Svetlana, the lit cigarette still dangling from his lips. 

“Fine,” she answers, before shooting a look to Ian. Ian freezes under her gaze. “You,” she tells him, “You are not so bad.” 

The grin that lights up Ian’s face nearly splits his cheeks in two. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy to hear a half compliment. “Thank you,” he replies earnestly, and he can see Mickey roll his eyes from his peripheral. “Svetlana?” 

She had turned away to leave, presumably to get a towel, but turned back when Ian called her name, expression as stony and cold as ever. He’s come to recognize it as her typical look, though, and so he doesn’t falter. 

“I’m really sorry.” 

He watches as a flash of light surprise goes through her eyes, and she straightens up just slightly in front of him. She’s like Mickey in that way, he guesses. Subtle expression changes can show everything. 

“I know,” she replies, nodding her head, “It is not your fault you are crazy.” 

Ian nods in response, because it’s true. It’s not his fault, but he could’ve at least tried to get better back then. 

“I’m getting better,” he continues, glancing to Mickey, who looks some weird combination of proud and nervous. “I’m taking my pills, and stuff. I haven’t done anything crazy in a long time.” 

Svetlana nods. He thinks for a moment she looks relieved, but he isn’t sure. She’s even harder to read than Mickey. Or maybe he just has more practice reading Mickey. 

“I know,” she replies again, “I would not let you around baby if you did not seem better.” 

“Okay,” Ian nods, exhaling. “Okay. Thank you.” Mostly, he just wants her to know he’s not going to hurt Yevgeny, and he isn’t going to take off again. 

“You are good with him,” she tells him, giving one of her softer, rare smiles. It makes Ian break into a grin. 

 

 

Ian sighs happily, settling in behind Mickey on the bed. Instead of shying away from him, he wraps one arm around Mickey’s waist and pulls his back into his chest, tucking his nose into Mickey’s dark hair. 

He feels Mickey shift and then relax, and it brings a soft smile to his face. Even now, even with all the shit he’s done, Mickey still relaxes into his arms at the end of the day. 

“Are you happy?” He asks, unable to keep the words from pouring out of his mouth. Word vomit, Fiona would call it. 

“What?” Mickey mumbles back. 

“Are you happy?” Ian repeats, “With me.” 

“Why the fuck are you asking stupid questions like that?” Mickey asks, and there’s no bite to it, but it isn’t a yes, so it doesn’t help settle Ian’s nerves any. 

“I don’t know,” Ian mutters, playing it off as if he hasn’t been thinking about this forever, and nosing gently into Mickey’s hair. “Just seems like I keep hurting people, and you might be happier without me.” 

Instead of the response he was expecting, Mickey actually scoffs. He curls Ian’s arm tighter around himself, and sighs. “I love your stupid ass,” he answers, “Shit would suck without you.” 

It’s as heartfelt and romantic as Mickey usually is-- which means, not very-- but it still calms Ian somewhat. “Okay,” he gives in, “Love you too.”

“Go to sleep, shithead.”


	8. the ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey talk everything out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think there is only going to be two more chapters of this and then an epilogue-- everything is starting to be resolved.

“Ian, you look like you have something to say.” 

Ian lifts his head at the words from his therapist, and then shifts his gaze to Mickey, who is also looking at him expectedly. He pauses for a moment, and shrugs his shoulders, because he isn’t particularly sure what he wants to say yet. 

“I don’t know,” he starts, his eyes on Mickey. “Just, we never really talked about it.” 

“Talked about what?” Mickey answers, his brow furrowing in that very familiar way. It makes Ian feel a little more comfortable to continue. 

“Everything,” he replies, “I mean, starting from when I left the first time. We just sort of moved on every time.” 

Mickey draws his bottom lip between his teeth, and hesitates, before he shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not good at talking shit out. I was just happy to have you back.” 

Ian sighs-- not in exasperation, though it could have come off that way, but in guilt. “It was stupid of me,” he says eventually, “To get on that bus and try and follow my useless dream.” 

“It wasn’t useless,” Mickey butts in, arguing back, “You coulda really been in the Army if you woulda done in legally.” 

Ian shakes his head, his eyes downcast for just a moment, before he looks back up at Mickey. “My brain was always fucked from the start,” he replies, “I was just too stubborn to realize it.” 

“It’s not fucked, Ian, Jesus, it’s just a little different,” Mickey presses, and Ian lets him win this time, before he continues talking. 

“Anyways, I know why you did it. Getting married, and everything. I guess I was so fucking caught up in feeling like second best that I couldn’t see you didn’t have a choice. Or, I mean, I guess you did, but you were making the right one. For both of us.” He tells Mickey, as earnest as he has ever been. He really blamed Mickey for that situation back then, and he knows it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t ever really Mickey’s fault. 

“Yeah,” Mickey mutters back, but Ian can see the relief flood through his eyes, as if he’s been waiting to hear it. It makes him feel even worse. 

“He woulda fucking killed us both,” Mickey continues, “If I refused. He threatened to go after you. He woulda killed you, and he woulda made me watch.” 

Ian swallows harshly at the truth behind it. 

“Are you talking about your dad?” The therapist interjects, and Mickey nods his head. “Have you ever talked to someone about what you went through with him?” 

Mickey seems a bit flustered by the question, though Ian thinks it’s a fair one. With years of childhood abuse and trauma, it seems only fitting that Mickey would need to talk to someone about it. 

Clearly Mickey doesn’t feel the same way. “Nah, man,” he disagrees, “I’m alright. I’m over it, it was years ago. ‘Sides, my dad’s in jail now, so, it’s not like he can get to me.” 

“Right,” the therapist nods, though he doesn’t seem completely convinced that Mickey’s as over it as he claims to be. Ian would agree with that assumption. “Well, we’re here to talk about you and Ian, but if you ever feel the need to talk about your dad, please don’t hold back.” 

Mickey only shrugs in response. 

“What happened after Ian left?” 

“The club,” Ian pipes back in, frowning at the memory. “I couldn’t handle the Army, so I went batshit crazy, stole a helicopter, and ran away.” 

His therapist blinks. 

“First manic episode,” Ian explains further, as if that will make it all make sense. He realizes it both does and doesn’t. “And then I thought the club was the answer. Monica-- that’s my mom-- would give me booze, and all kinds of drugs, and guys to take home, and I thought it would help me forget you. It did, for a little.” 

“But I found you,” Mickey interjects, his voice unusually soft. 

“But you found me,” Ian echoes, “You pulled me outta that… that shitty mindspace. I don’t think I ever thanked you for it.” 

Mickey shakes his head. 

“Thank you,” Ian replies honestly, “For bringing me home.” 

“It’s cool,” Mickey shrugs, as nonchalantly as possible, “Wasn’t like I was gonna leave your ass there.” He gives Ian half a smile, which Ian knows is mostly to make him feel better-- an attempt to relieve some of his guilt. 

“After that it got worse,” Ian decides, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. This is the part he doesn’t like to talk about. 

“Some good shit happened,” Mickey argues, “I came out.” 

“You came out,” Ian repeats, a smile tugging up his face at the memory. It threatens to fall when he remembers that Mickey only did that because he made it into an ultimatum. Shit. 

“Screamed to the whole Southside that I love sucking your dick. One of my finest fucking moments,” Mickey recalls, his mouth tugging up into a half smile, “We got the shit beat out of us, but I don’t regret it.” 

Ian’s smile is slowly appearing back on his face. “You did it in the most you way possible,” he agrees, even thinking back to Mickey’s slight mental breakdown against the cop car. “And I was really proud of you.” 

Mickey brushes the compliment off, but Ian sees how it makes his cheeks flush lightly and his lips curl up at the corners. “Thanks,” he mutters, and Ian’s heart swells for him. He feels at once both happy that he makes Mickey feel good, and sad because it’s unfortunately a rare occurrence. 

“My first low was right after that, right?” Ian asks, his eyes back on the threads on his jeans. 

“Yeah,” Mickey mumbles, and then clears his throat, “Yeah. I felt so-- I don’t know. I was fucking scared. I thought I broke you or something. Thought I could take care of you even though everybody was saying I couldn’t.” 

Ian keeps his eyes down, as he’s never really considered how scary that would’ve been for Mickey. Up until then, Ian had had his slight emotional moments, but he’d never done anything even close to that. 

Neither of them like talking about the depressive moments much-- even if they are less dangerous to everyone else, Ian can tell they freak Mickey out more than when he’s manic. “You tried to take care of me,” Ian murmurs, “You fed me, and laid with me, and talked to me. Thank you.” Though he doesn’t remember much from those days, he remembers Mickey feeding him saltines so he wouldn’t starve. Mickey’s voice cracking as he begs him to get up, just for five minutes so he could shower. Mickey bringing him water and soup and helping him sit up so he could eat it. 

Mickey looks surprised to be thanked. “I just… yeah,” he agrees, “I just wanted to make sure you were gonna be okay.” 

“And then it got worse,” Ian decides yet again, because everything just seemed to be getting worse. He was spiraling back then, and he and Mickey both knew it. 

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees this time, “Yeah, man. With the fucking suitcases, and you were so… angry. And paranoid. And you never fucking slept.” 

“Second manic episode,” Ian comments softly, mostly for the therapist’s sake, who he notices Mickey has mostly forgotten about. 

“You would wake me up in the middle of the night so we could fuck. I know you were cheating on me, with those guys at the club.” He looks to Ian for confirmation. 

Ian’s heart breaks a little. “Yeah. I was.” 

“And you made that porno.” 

Ian can’t bear to look him in the face. “Yeah. I did.” 

“But I fucking forgave you,” Mickey shook his head, “Your sister said you were sick and so I just fucking forgave you for everything. It hurt like a bitch, man. I fucking love you and you just tossed me around like that.” 

“I’m sorry,” Ian says softly, as earnestly as he can manage, “I’m really fucking sorry, Mick.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “I said I forgave you, man, we’re fine.” 

It isn’t fine. Not in Ian’s mind, at least, because he can’t even look at Mickey out of guilt. He feels so bad for everything he’s done, and they haven’t even gotten to the part about Yevgeny yet. 

“I kidnapped Yev,” he exhales, shaking his head. “I thought I was taking him to Disney World, and I didn’t even ask you. I didn’t even pack diapers, or any food.” 

“Yevgeny’s my kid,” Mickey tells the therapist, who nods, but doesn’t otherwise interrupt. Ian thinks that he’s probably glad the two of them are finally talking. 

“Scariest day of my life,” Mickey continues, his voice softer, “When I called you all those times and you never fucking picked up. Didn’t know where the fuck you were, if you were okay, if my kid was okay.”

Ian swallows. “I know,” he replies, because he can’t even imagine how horrible that was for Mickey. “I know, Mick. I’m sorry.” 

Mickey nods, and lets the apology slide this time, because he needed to hear that one. “You know you gotta get better, right?” He asks. 

“Yeah,” Ian agrees, and doesn’t even think about it this time. “I know that I gotta get better.” 

The statement seems to relax Mickey some. Ian isn’t sure if it makes him feel better or worse. 

 

 

 

That night, Ian falls asleep with both of his arms wrapped around Mickey, and his face nuzzled into the hair on the back of Mickey’s head. It’s home. He’s realizing that he isn’t the whole ocean-- he doesn’t move the tides, he doesn't control the sea. He doesn’t beat upon the shore. He’s only a drop in the ocean. Mickey loves him, not despite his disorder, but including it.


	9. bleak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is not a straight line. There will be bumps, dips, and moments when things seem bleak. However, at the end of the day, things are much better than they have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ian is learning how to pull himself from that dark place. He's learning to appreciate his family, and learning to appreciate Mickey.

Ian wakes up the next morning to the sound of Yevgeny crying, and the smashing of a plate against the floor. A string of curses follows, and the crying only gets louder. 

He starts to sit up, but his entire body feels like it’s made of lead. It’s far too heavy for him to pull himself up, and so he ducks his face back under the covers. 

He’s just having an off day, he tells himself, it’s nothing major. It doesn’t mean he needs to go back to the hospital, or to the clinic, or even to his psychiatrist. He’s just having a bad day. A lot of people have bad days. 

Granted, they don’t usually start within minutes of waking up, but he chooses to ignore that fact. 

“Ian?” Mickey yells from the kitchen, over the sound of the crying. He sounds panicked, and it’s almost enough for Ian to get out of bed. Almost. 

He realizes with a heavy sadness that he’s forgotten to take his evening dose yesterday. It might have something to do with why he’s feeling so terrible. Or maybe his brain just wants to fuck with him again, as it so often does. 

Yevgeny still hasn’t stopped screaming from the kitchen. Ian pulls the covers tighter around himself and sighs, sending a silent prayer that Mickey can figure this out himself. He really doesn’t want to get up, and he really feels like he can’t get up. Even if it’s starting to get hot and stuffy under the covers, he doesn’t dare move from underneath them. The world in his head is terrible, and getting up would make it worse. 

“Ian, man,” Mickey calls again, “I really fucking need your help.” 

Ian closes his eyes, and wills him to stop. He doesn’t. 

“Ian, please, get out of the fucking bed.” 

It’s the please that does it for him. Mickey isn’t usually polite, nor does know how to use his manners. 

He sits up slowly, and swings one leg over the side of the bed. It takes him a moment or two before he does the other, all the while staring at the floor like it has a personal vendetta against him. He stands, knees shaking, wearing only his boxers and the shirt he slept in. Whether it’s his or Mickey’s, he isn’t really sure. 

The crying from the kitchen still hasn’t stopped, and Ian makes his way there slowly, rubbing at his eyes like a particularly tired zombie. 

He spots Mickey balancing the kid on one hip, and trying to pick glass out of the bottom of his foot with the other. A cup is shattered on the floor between them, littering the tile with pieces of glass. 

“Man, where the fuck have you been? I’ve been---” Mickey stops when he sees Ian, and concern flits through his eyes. For some reason, it doesn’t make Ian irritated like it used to. It actually makes him feel weirdly cared for, as Mickey’s so clearly struggling but still has the time to worry about him. 

“Pass me Yev,” he says, holding his arms out for the toddler, “I’ve got him.” 

Mickey does a once over of Ian’s expression and his body language, before standing upright again and passing the two year old over to Ian. “Thanks,” he sighs, balancing himself on the counter to continue trying to get the glass out of his foot. 

Ian nods, and grimaces as Yevgeny wails in his ear. Somehow, it brings him back to reality a bit, and he starts to rock the kid in his arms, shushing him gently. “You’re okay,” Ian tells him, stepping away from the mess in the kitchen, “Daddy just dropped a cup, nothing scary.” 

Despite the mess, Ian can see Mickey raise both eyebrows when he calls him Daddy. No matter how shit he feels, the incredulous look makes his lips turn up a little. 

He takes Yevgeny to the couch, and puts on that show about rabbits that he likes, and the kid is calm within minutes. Ian likes to think maybe Yevgeny’s starting to like him a little. Or maybe he just really likes this show. 

Mickey rejoins him a bit later, flopping down beside Ian on the couch. “What’s up?” He asks Ian, who shrugs. Mickey gives him a pointed, pressing look, and he sighs. 

“Forgot to take them last night and I feel like shit.” 

“Guess that’s proof they’re working, huh?” Mickey’s lips curl up into a lopsided smile. “C’mon, I’ll get your morning ones.” 

“When did you become such a fucking optimist?” Ian asks, running a tired hand through his hair. 

Mickey shrugs. “When you stopped being one.” 

 

 

Fiona calls later, and practically begs Mickey to bring Ian over for dinner. It’s only been a couple days since she’s seen him, but she tells Mickey that it feels like forever. He agrees, only because Ian can tell he’s weirdly integrated into the Gallagher family. Even Lip is starting to take to him, however impossible that may have seemed. 

It’s how after dinner, Ian ends up sitting back on his family’s couch, with his arm around Mickey’s shoulders. Though he’s out, and though he did scream to the entire Southside that he loves sucking Ian’s dick, Ian can tell Mickey is still a bit awkward about being publicly affectionate, even in front of his family. He’s waited until they’ve mostly dissipated before pulling Mickey in close to his side.

He glances down after a bit, and finds Mickey has dozed off, leaning heavily against his side. Debbie practically squeals at the sight, and Ian shushes her. God knows he doesn’t need Mickey waking up to two redheads fawning over him. He’d never hear the end of that.   
Besides, he feels like he ought to let Mickey sleep. He’s probably exhausted from dealing with all of Ian’s shit for so long. 

The peace doesn’t last long, with Lip strolling through the front door like he never left. He snickers, and Ian glances up. “What?” 

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Lip replies, gesturing loosely to Mickey, “Mickey Milkovich sleeping all cozied up on our couch.” 

“Fuck off,” Ian replies, shifting Mickey a little closer to him. 

“I’m serious,” Lip continues, “Looks like he’s getting soft.” 

Ian exhales, as if he hasn’t thought the same thing a million times. It seems so wrong coming out of someone else’s mouth. “He’s just free, asshole.”

Lip raises both his hands in a gesture of mostly fake innocence, before taking a seat on the coffee table in front of Ian. “You doing okay, man?” 

Ian nods. He’s learned in his time out of the clinic to not let the question bother him, despite whatever implications it may have about him usually not being fine. He’s learned to take it as a sign of caring, instead of a sign that he’s not well. “Yeah,” he replies, “I’m doing better.” 

“Good,” Lip nods, clasping his hands in front of him. He seems genuinely relieved to hear, which Ian notes nicely. His brother can be a dick sometimes. “You guys aren’t still beating each other up and shit, right?” He adds, gesturing to Mickey and Ian.

Ian chuckles, but it makes him think of the time when their problems were Mickey being afraid to kiss him, and Mickey being closeted. He has real nostalgia for those times, instead of now, when things seem so bleak. Still, there’s a light in it all. “No,” he answers, “We talk shit out now. You know, therapy and stuff.” 

Lip’s eyebrows shoot up, the gesture reminding him of Mickey’s familiar ones. “Really?” He asks, and Ian nods, “You got Mickey to go to therapy?” 

Ian shrugs in response. “It wasn’t that hard,” he answers, “I think he’d rather do that than have me trying to beat him up.” 

Lip shakes his head, his typical asshole smirk pulling up one corner of his lips. “I’m telling you, man,” he gestures to Mickey, “Soft.” 

“He could still kick your ass,” Ian replies, because he’s almost completely sure of it. Mickey knows how to fight, with the amount of street fights he’s been in. 

“Yeah? I’d like to see him try.” 

“College fuckhead,” Mickey mumbles, his voice soft and thick with sleep. Ian blinks, surprised that he’s woken, but then laughs, surprising even himself with the sound. 

“Softie,” Lip shoots back, but it’s shockingly fond. He stands and ruffles Ian’s hair, before heading into the kitchen to greet Fiona. 

Ian sighs, and relaxes back against the couch with Mickey. “Morning,” he comments, only lightly teasing. 

“Night,” Mickey responds, ducking his face back into Ian’s shoulder. It makes the corners of Ian’s lips pull up just slightly, his eyes on the dark hair nestled against his collarbone.

Thinking back to this morning, it makes Ian sigh with discomfort. He'd felt so completely terrible and useless, just from missing a dose. It feels like going backwards instead of forwards, and he takes a moment to get stuck in his own little pity party, before he shakes his head to snap out of it. What is he thinking? His brother and Mickey both asked if he's okay, and he didn't get irritated. He managed to get up and help with Yevgeny even though he felt bad, and he took his morning dosage without refusing to do it, complaining, or even glaring at the pills like he used to. He went to Fiona's for dinner, and ate with his family without them walking on eggshells around him. Fiona didn't fret. Lip didn't compare him to Monica. Carl and Debbie weren't weary to tell him all their drama. Liam wasn't scared of him. He isn't locked up in that place. All in all, despite how bleak things had seemed for a moment, things were better. He feels better. He's getting better. 

He closes his eyes, and leans back against the couch.


	10. better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian has a good day, and loves Mickey.

Ian wakes in his own bed, one freckled arm thrown over the dark haired boy in front of him. Glancing to his childhood alarm clock, the blaring red letters read 9:36, a much more normal time to wake up. It isn’t five am, and it isn’t noon, so he considers it to be alright. He smushes his face against Mickey’s hair, inhaling deeply, before he pulls back and detangles their legs. The action makes Mickey stir, but not wake. 

He pulls himself out of bed, and reaches for the three labeled bottles on his bedside table. Mickey, of course, had thought to bring them. Ian is momentarily thankful, before he downs all three pills at once, and chases them with a bottle of something he finds on the table. 

It turns out to be extremely old Gatorade, and he sputters out a disgusted cough, mentally cursing Carl for his sloppiness. 

The cough is what finally wakes Mickey up, and he sits, his eyes glazed over with sleep and his hair standing in every direction. Ian has to take a moment to remember how to breathe, because it’s the best sight he’s ever seen. He doesn’t know why he spent so long denying that this is how he wants to wake up every day for the rest of his life. He wishes he could go back in time, and punch himself in the face for being so ignorant and stubborn, for not appreciating what he’s had right in front of him. Mickey looks so damn cute and sleepy, and Ian brings one hand up to rest on his cheek, both corners of his mouth pulling into a wide smile. 

“What?” Mickey mutters, his hand moving up to rub his eyes. 

Ian shakes his head. “Morning,” he replies, “You look groggy as hell.” 

Mickey bats his hand away, his eyebrows drawing together in mock offense. Still, he curls closer into Ian. “I’m fucking tired, man. You woke me up with all your hacking.” 

“I coughed once,” Ian says incredulously, a laugh bubbling up from his throat, “Drama queen.” 

“Shithead,” Mickey retorts, but it’s playful and friendly. He presses a kiss to the side of Ian’s head, and swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing up and stretching both of his arms out. 

He doesn’t ask, but he shoots a look to the pills on the table. Ian nods, because he understands the importance of the question now. Mickey nods back, somewhat of a proud, lopsided smile brightening up his features. Ian barely has time to think that if he gets that look every time, he’ll take them without complaining. 

Ian stands after him, running a hand through his hair to tame it. It’s getting long, and while that had once been a sign that he wasn’t doing so well, he’s starting to like it. It’s the opposite of his army days, and it gives Mickey something to pull on. He shakes his head gently to pull himself from his thoughts, and offers one hand to the boy next to him. 

Mickey takes it wordlessly, of course, and the two of them head down the stairs. 

 

 

 

“How are you doing?” His therapist asks, and Ian nods in return. 

“Good,” he replies, “Better, I mean.” 

One eyebrow raised, the therapist seems suspicious. Ian can understand that’s probably because he’s never been just good before, he’s always had a list of complaints about how he was feeling. Or, even if he didn’t, he’d complain about being asked that question. 

“Just good?” 

“I mean, yeah. This morning was good. Yesterday was kinda rough, ‘cause I missed a dose, but I still got up and stuff.” 

“You seem optimistic.” 

Ian pauses, and then shrugs. He used to be quite optimistic, he guesses. When he was younger, for sure. Mickey always joked that he was like an annoying ray of sunshine. Sometimes he feels more like a storm cloud, but he’d like to get back to sunny someday. 

“I just…” he starts, and then shrugs again, “It’s not like every day is going to be good, right? So it’s fine to have bad days. I’m still better than I was six months ago.” 

His therapist looks mildly proud. “Where were you six months ago?” 

“In the hospital,” Ian mutters, his hands folded in his lap, “I kept trying to escape, I refused to take my pills, and I wouldn’t talk to Mickey when he came to visit.” 

“Why?” 

Ian shrugs for the third time. It’s a gesture to feign nonchalance. “I didn’t want him to see me like that, but he kept coming back. Looking back, I feel kinda lucky, I guess. A lot of people would’ve given up on me if I went batshit crazy and then ignored them for months at a time. But he didn’t.” 

“Because he loves you.” 

Ian nods to agree. “Yeah. I can see that now. Waking up this morning next to him, it sort of punched me in the face how lucky I am. He’s really… I don’t know how to explain it. He’s tough, but he’s way kinder than he comes off.” 

“I’m glad to hear you’re learning to appreciate the people around you, Ian. How’s your relationship with your family?” 

He has to think for a second about that one, before he nods again. “It’s better,” he replies, “We spent the night there last night, and I saw my older brother. He’s sort of a douchebag, but in a likeable way. He’s even getting along with Mickey, which they never used to do. And none of my younger siblings are scared of me anymore, so that’s… good.”

“They used to be scared of you?” 

“I think they were scared of the mood swings,” he chooses his words carefully, trying not to come off as too self deprecating. “Once I went manic and thought someone was coming for me, so I swung a bat at them, and it was just Debbie. So they were scared, but I mean. I get it.” 

“But you think they’ve forgiven you?” 

“I don’t…” Ian pauses, rethinking his words, “I don’t know, really. I just think they know that I’m getting better, and I’m not going to do something like that again.” 

“How’s Fiona?” 

Ian smiles briefly at the mention of his sister. She seemed less worried, he supposes, and she hasn’t been bugging Mickey endlessly to bring him home, so he thinks that seems like progress. “She’s not freaking out as much,” he answers, “I think she’s less worried about me. I know her and Mickey talk sometimes, about how I’m doing, but she’s not forcing him to bring me home or anything.” 

“How does that make you feel?” 

“That they talk about me?” 

His therapist nods. 

Ian shrugs. A couple weeks back, he would’ve raved about how unfair it is that they’re talking about him behind his back, not even including him in the conversation. “I think it makes her feel better,” he says easily, “And I’m okay with it. I know Mickey would never say anything that he wouldn’t say to my face. It’s sorta weird that they’re friends now, but it’s kinda good.” 

“Why is it weird?” 

A soft laugh escapes from Ian’s lips before he can stop it. “You’d understand if you knew Mickey a couple years back,” he says, his mind instantly going to when Mickey was angry, closeted, and covered in dirt. “He was very… thuggish. Fiona always said that his family was a different kind of poor than we are, because they were known for being so vicious. I don’t know if you remember, but when I was fifteen, he was trying to kill me.” 

The therapist’s lips slide up into an easy, professional smile. “I remember. Something about his sister?” 

“Yeah,” Ian smiles at the mention of Mandy. God, he misses her. “I rejected her.” 

His therapist nods, “It sounds like he’s very protective.”

Somehow, the statement seems incredibly obvious to Ian, even if he hadn’t thought of it much prior. Mickey has always protected him, from things both real and inside his head. He’s tried to protect Mandy, and nowadays, he’s even protecting Yevgeny. He’s loyal but aggressive, kind but vicious. And Ian’s starting to love that about him. 

 

 

 

“Thank you,” Ian starts, sitting across from Mickey at the dinner table. A sandwich sits in front of him on a plate, because Mickey doesn’t know how to cook and they’re back at his place. With Svetlana and Yevgeny at the park, it’s just the two of them in the house.

Mickey’s eyebrows furrow together in concern, and then confusion. It almost breaks Ian’s heart that he looks so confused to be thanked, when he’s done so much. “For what?” He asks, around a mouthful of bread. 

Ian can’t help but break into a small smile at the sight of him, his face so open and expressive. “Visiting every week, even when I wouldn’t talk to you,” he says simply, shrugging his shoulders. “Sticking by me, and letting me stay here, even though I ran away with Yev, and cheated on you, and---” 

“Hey,” Mickey cuts him off, shaking his head, “It’s in the past, man. Alright? You always got a place with me, I mean it. You want a soda?” 

Ian nods, his smile widening at the typical nonchalant response from Mickey. “Yeah. Coke, if we’ve got it.” 

Mickey stands, presses a firm kiss to the top of Ian’s head, and then ruffles his hair. “You’re welcome,” he finally answers, and heads to the kitchen to fetch a drink for them both.


End file.
